“… Truthfully? He sat me down, in the weeks after your fall from Church Rock, and made me believe it. That I am his best colour; I am the wildest foreign land he’s been too; that I’m all his words – all of them, from his letters, to his stories, or to words he does not say but shows, in a movement. I am the woman in the street who turns his head, and that, for a moment, he thinks, Who is …? Then, It is Moira. And she is mine.
Strange? Yes, I am. We all are.
We dream what we dream; we believe what we believe. And if ever you were the proof of something, it’s this: we love what we love”.